


Last of His Kind - Here There Were Dragons

by xxCopyCatxx



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxCopyCatxx/pseuds/xxCopyCatxx
Summary: About a boy, a curious creature he stumbles upon and the adventure they end up sharing.





	Last of His Kind - Here There Were Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, a blast from the past. I had it posted over on another platform for a short while , but since I'm settling down on here, I thought to migrate it. Back from the days when I still wrote on a regular basis. Simpler days, when _Wingdings_ was a nonsensical font to me and not a modified Batarang...  
>  Enjoy?

The little pebble was exceptionally unlucky.

Even before the incident with the boy, that had been clear.

It had started its journey who-knows-where and somehow had found its way to a small hill. After a series of incidents, among others involving a gull and an incontinent cow, it had found itself on the banks of a lush river. Hidden in the grass, it had sat in the sun, among dozens of other pebbles looking almost exactly the same.

Not exactly the same, though. Claws, paws, teeth and whatever else had left their marks on the raw, grey surface of the small stone.

Among all the other pebbles, the little one had laid. The waters had licked at it, the sun had shone from above and the moss had started to dig its tiny roots into its surface. With the moss came the ants and the beetles and the grass, and the water left.

As time went by, the river changed its course. Only slightly, but enough to leave the pebble dry, except on rainy days. And despite being exceptionally unlucky, the small pebble had the life all stones had.

Until the boy came along, that was. He was only six winters old and had a slingshot in his hand, was filling his pockets with stones. That day, the no longer grey, but now green pebble lay next to its brothers and no one would have expected anything to happen.

It was the unluckiest day yet for the little pebble, because on that day, it stopped being a pebble.

When the boy was holding it in his hand, the pebble started vibrating, shaking, and a small crack formed.

He was surprised and stared at the stone in his hands, but had just enough wits to not drop it. Instead, he slowly set it back down on the ground and watched from what he considered a safe distance.

The crack gradually grew bigger and wider, until it revealed something dark shimmering inside. Slowly, the two halves of the pebble were pushed apart, and a small snout squeezed itself out.

The pair of eyes, that belonged to the snout blinked once, twice, before carefully opening and taking in its environment. With a small sneeze, the creature twitched, forcing the pebble to break apart. Carefully, it lifted its head and took in the strange smell of grass and water and the boy through its nostrils.

The boy, a farmer’s son named Wayo, stared in marvel. He had seen many animals before, he knew how chickens fledged from their eggs and he had, together with his father, helped as Bessy, their cow, had calved. The boy had spent most of his time in the woods, hiding from his parents and their tasks. Wayo knew every bird and could imitate each one’s call, so precise it seemed he actually could speak their language.

Yet, he had no idea what creature he faced.

The beast was so small, it could have fitted in his empty hand. With disproportionately large ears, like a rabbit, its head seemed quite small. Its face and body looked like someone had taken a lizard and had squashed it together, yet the fluff on its neck defied that theory. But the strangest part about the creature was the thin skin sprouting from its back. It looked like a bizarre mixture of a duck’s webbed feet and its wings.

Maybe, Wayo puzzled, the little creature was an accident. He had heard of three legged calves and two headed snakes.

Then, he took a look around, checking if the small creature had a mother, but the willow was silent, except for the gurgling of the river and the noises coming out of the nearly forest.

Very slowly, the boy approached the beast, one hand held out for it to take his scent. Millimetres from the snout, he paused in motion. His outstretched arm fluttered slightly.

Even from the distance, Wayo could see the creature’s tiny heart beat in its chest, as the golden eyes watched him with both, curiosity and fear.

Then, like a snake, its tongue slithered out between tiny, but already sharp teeth. When the soft, wet tongue touched his hand, Wayo was worried for a moment that the creature was poisonous. A minute passed, maybe more, and nothing happened, not even a tingling in his fingers and he sighed in relief.

Slowly, he moved closer to pet the beast’s furry neck. Its body started vibrating, like a purring cat, but it kept quiet.

“Hey, little guy,” Wayo started talking, in that voice, he also used to calm his little sister Tersa down, “aren’t you beautiful? I wonder, what are you?” He let his tongue click.

To his amazement, the beast tried to locate the sound, stretching its neck, before opening its mouth. Then, like an echo in a valley, it imitated the sound Wayo had made, even in the same rhythm.

Playfully, the boy tried another tune: He twittered, the way a thrush did.

The creature in front of him imitated that sound, too.

Wayo yelped in his best impression of a dog – and the new-born did it again.

Whatever that creature was, Wayo decided, its ability was truly astonishing.

“Can you speak, too?”

The creature coughed, and its voice was rough, but it managed to repeat even these words.

As fascinating as the creature was, Wayo soon acknowledged the need for more pragmatic measures. Firstly, he needed a name for the animal. Secondly, whatever strange species it belonged to, it needed to eat. Apparently, his new friend had already adopted him, so the boy considered it his responsibility to take care of it.

“Wingdings,” Wayo decided, after thinking about it for a while. It was as good a name as any other, and rolled over the tongue, had a nice ring to it. Plus, it seemed the perfect word to describe the strange creature, the thing with wings.

“Wingdings,” the animal gnarled and coughed.

Now, on to the second issue, Wayo decided.

“What do you eat?” he asked Wingdings.

“Do you eat?” the creature echoed, and Wayo decided he would get no information from it. His new friend had seemed very intelligent – but in the end, it was just imitating sounds.

Fine, Wayo decided. He knew a thing or two about animals, and most of them eat either grass or meat. Of course, babies usually drank milk – But since Bessy had died in the child bed, Wayo had seen neither milk nor cheese nor butter in their little hut. The only exception had been, when Uncle Chepo had visited, and brought a few supplies with him. In exchange, they had given him from their wild honey and turnips and potatoes.

Wingsdings teeth had been sharp and thin, and seemed like the teeth of a carnivore, but not a hunter. Maybe the beast ate insects?

Wayo decided to catch a grasshopper and give it a try.

He stood up, but hesitated, when Wingdings let out a high, miserable whimper. The sound it made was high and heart piercing. Wayo turned back, to pet the creature and calm it down, then stood up again.

Wingdings wailed even worse than before, and Wayo could have sworn the beast’s eyes were watering.

He sighed and created a sling from his tunic. Carefully, he lifted the deformed reptile and avoided teeth and claws. As soon, as it laid in Wayo’s improvised bag, Wingdings started purring again, before dozing off. It coughed and huffed in its sleep, but did not wake up.

 

* * *

 

Despite the strange pet Wayo kept, nothing too much out of the ordinary happened in the next year. Life was normal, well, and as normal as it could be on a farm in the middle of nowhere – with a winged reptile.

Wayo sat inside the hut, braiding a basket, and Tersa watched him. When someone knocked at the door, the boy was confused. They rarely got visitors, especially with harvest time so close.

Curious, the boy stood up and opened the door. Behind it stood an old man. He was not simply old, but the oldest person Wayo had ever seen: With deep wrinkles in his face and brown age spots like freckles and long hair and beard, so bright, they almost seemed white. He wore a long robe, held together by a belt with dozen of little pouches and bags and a sort knife hanging at. In his hand, he held a long staff, like a magician from the stories, but did not use it to support his weight.

“How can I help you, Uncle?” Wayo asked.

“I’m not your uncle. I’m a bard, boy,” the strange man smiled, in the unique way, only long bearded, old men could. Wayo was confused. Until now, all men he had met had either been his father or his uncles. Since he had only one father, it had been the natural conclusion to address the stranger this way.

But Wayo was a sensible person and had been raised well for a farm boy.

He nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry, Uncle Bard. Now, what can I do for you?”

The old man huffed at Wayo, and the boy realized, the stranger still was not contempt with the way he talked to him.

“Master…Bard?” He tried again, searching for a way to please the stranger.

“Well enough,” the stranger puffed, “do you live here on your own?”

“No, I live with my mother, my father, my sister, one bull, four hens and my friend,” he answered truthfully, as he had been taught.

He scanned the stranger. In his long robes, he sure must sweat a lot, Wayo though, and what things he was carrying!

Master Bard had a strange wooden construction on his back, with many strings on it, like a bow.

“What weapon is that?” Wayo asked in curiosity, pointing at the strange bow.

The man was confused for a moment, and then laughed. He pulled the bow from his shoulders, and Wayo retreated a few steps, grasping for where he kept his knife.

The old man plucked the strings, and only when Wayo heard the soft, melodic notes, his face lit up in recognition.

“It’s a musical instrument,” he laughed, “just like my flute.” His father had cut him a pipe in his fifth year, which could mock the birds and was a most excellent way to spend long winter evenings.

They probably had heard the music too, since Wayo’s parents came from the field.

They saw Master Bard and his mother curtsied and laughed and invited him inside, like the ladies did, that lived two days of walking from the hut, in a city, behind the river and the forest and the small village nearby.

She rushed around the hut, straightening blankets, cooking tea, taking the good bread out of its stash (and Wayo made sure to not forget where that stash was) and threw over a dress.

“What news is there, what’s happening in the world?” Wayo’s father asked, and his wife hurriedly sat down next to him in her best dress, the one she dusted every second full moon that she had only worn one before, at the funeral of her own mother. She pulled little Tersa to sit on her lap.

They both sat, opposite from the strange stranger and nodded at every word he said, as if his words could fill an empty stomach.

Wayo was bored, though. Of course he had heard of Zoberherch and the king that lived there, with all his wives and sons and daughters, his knights and servants, but he had never seen it. And for him, only what he could see and touch was important. The orders of the king never reached into the outskirts of the mountains, anyway.

Wayo stood up.

“I’ll go hunt in the forest with Wingdings,” he announced. The bard ignored his departure and continued speaking. Wayo’s mother, though, felt the need to remind her son of his manners.

“Apologize for interrupting,” she hissed and Wayo obliged, because she had that fierce look in her eyes even his father feared.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, Master Bard,” he apologized, as his mother had demanded, interrupting the bard once again.

Yet the old man simply smiled. He rubbed his beard, and amusement rang in his full voice.

“Don’t worry, boy,” he said, “who is that friend of yours,  _Wingdings_. A dog?”

That was a strange thought. Since when had dogs ever had wings?

But Wayo stayed polite. “Maybe it is,” he replied, “I don’t know yet.”

Until now, the old bard had thought of the farmer’s boy as an intelligent, young lad. The boy was maybe seven winters old, and never had gotten to see much more of the world than his hut and the river and the forest and the village next to it – but he had shown a quick grasp for new ideas and a natural curiosity. How could he not know, what animal he held as a pet? Maybe…

The old man smiled his old-man-smile. After all, he had seen and heard much, and reminded himself to not judge too fast. That was a mistake reserved for the youth.

“Then why don’t you introduce it to me?” he proposed to Wayo.

The boy was not sure that was a good idea.

Wingdings had stayed with them for a year, but had always kept away from visitors.

But his mother nodded, vividly, the way she had nodded after every sentence Master Bard had said.

“Yes, why don’t you?”

Wayo obliged.

He went outside for a moment, and shouted his friend’s name. The bushes nearby rustled, and then parted to reveal Wingdings.

Within only a year and a half, the creature had reached the height of a donkey. It’s still enormous ears hung down, as if they were too heavy for their owner to lift. It was the same for the big, leathery wings on its back. Wingdings mostly kept them folded together, only when he slept they would wrap around him like a blanket.

With the emerald scales, and the occasional glisters of gold and silver in between, the pet looked like a jewel that had come to life.

When Wingdings had reached Wayo in its strange gallop, he slicked its long split tongue across its friend face and hand.

The boy giggled, but then remembered what he was supposed to do.

“Come, Wingdings,” he spoke to his friend. “Mum wants you to get inside.”

“Inside?” the creature echoed.

“Yeah, she wants me to introduce you to someone.”

The creature let itself fall to the ground in protest, shaking the earth with its weight. Apparently, the bard had heard the noise, because he came out of the hut – and stared the emerald beast.

“Marvellous,” he muttered, “how marvellously strange.”

“No, no strange,” Wingdings protested. “Man-o-man strange!”

If the bard had had reading glasses, he would surely have started polishing them.

“And look at you, you can speak!”

“Speak,” echoed Wingdings and agreed.

“It can,” Wayo confirmed, not without certain pride. His mother had told him to be humble about his achievements, but he forgot that in his excitement. “I taught him,” he added.

“So,  _what_  is it?” Wayo’s father asked. He had always hoped to get rid of the strange beast, but since it had kept mice and rats away from the storage and his son happy, that had not worked out.

The bard looked as if someone had just put a cake, one with real flour and fruits and actual sugar, in front of him and told him he could eat it on his own. While Wayo knew his friend looked impressive, the reaction seemed a bit exaggerated to him.

“This, my dear friends,” the bard finally said, his voice hoarse as if he had just seen a ghost, “is a dragon. The last of its kind.”

“A dragon?” Wayo’s mother asked, doubt in her voice. “They are nothing but bedtime tales my mother told me. No one has ever seen an  _actual_  dragon.”

“No one  _still alive_  has seen a dragon,” the bard corrected her. “But my father had the honour of meeting the last one before her death.”

“A dragon?” Wayo stammered, echoing is mother’s words. “But,” he remembered the stories “aren’t dragons gigantic, as tall as a house? Wise? Rich? Can’t they fly?”

With each attribute Wayo named, Master Bard nodded. “Yes! Yes indeed,” he agreed.

“But… Wingdings is none of that.”

“Exactly – And that’s what is so marvellously strange.” The old bard sounded, as if he just told a joke only he understood.

Wayo kept silent for a moment, thinking about what the strange old bard had told him. Wingdings, a dragon…

“Master Bard,” Wayo said, hesitating, “what else do you know about dragons?”

“A lot,” Master Bard answered, ”A lot and nothing. So many stories and songs and they are only clear on one thing: A wise dragon can spew flames and fly.”

At that, Wingdings started flapping his wings. But after only four stokes, he gave up and let them relax again.

“So,” Wayo hesitated, “Is a dragon wise, because it can spew fire and fly or can he fly because he is wise, or does he just happen to be wise and spewing flames…?”

The old man smiled his old-man-smile. “For someone young you start asking the right questions early.” He nodded his head, very slowly and in a meaningful way, and nodded again.

“But,” Wayo’s father interrupted the man’s wise nodding, “what does one do with a young dragon?” He now regretted even more to have kept the creature.

“It is not just any young dragon,” Master Bard reminded, “but the last of its kind. It’s an honour to raise it.”

“Will it leave, once it has grown up?” Wayo’s mother asked. “Will it grow up soon?” She would not admit it, but her own mother’s tales about dragons had been pretty clear that dragons ate humans as lunch. With potatoes and wild garlic. “I heard dragons eat a lot.”

“Don’t be so parsimonious, woman,” the bard admonished and Wayo’s mother nodded eagerly. She had no idea what that meant, but if the wise bard said it, he must be right.

“Does he have to grow up?” Wayo asked hesitating. He dreaded the thought of losing his friend.

Master Bard nodded: “Well of course, he has to!”

“What if Wingdings doesn’t want to?” Wayo objected.

“Who  _doesn’t_  want to grow up?” the old bard chuckled and again sounded very wise, and Wayo’s mother nodded.

Who did not want to grow up? Well, Wayo for one did not. His parents had told him he would have to marry the miller’s daughter and have his own children and his own farm once he grew up. The miller’s daughter lived in the village, behind the river and the forest, and had lost her first teeth with four in a fight. She had a big birthmark on her cheek and had flung mud at Wayo and laughed with her friends at him. She was mean and stupid.

Yet, Wayo did not speak up against Master Bard.

He thought again, for a little while longer. Master Bard had seen and heard much and was wise, so maybe it was true, and Wingdings  _wanted_  to grow up. Maybe little dragons were different from little humans after all.

Wayo remembered that Wingdings had slept  _in_  the fire pit, back when he had still fit into it. Maybe he had tried to become a big dragon back then.

He told the bard about his thoughts, and he agreed.

“It seems the fire did not work. How about flying?”

Wayo shook his head. In the forest, he and his friend had climbed a tree. It had bent under their weight and in the wind – and both had fallen down. Wingdings had spread his wings, but had hit the ground together with the boy. Wayo had not told his mother about it, though.

“His wings are too weak,” he told Master Bard.

The old man thought for a moment: “Then what about wisdom?”

“He can barely speak,” Wayo objected and his friend pressed his snout against the boy’s hand.

 “Man-o-man be quietsilent,” Wingdings babbled and coughed and hefted his snout to the floor, looking for the scent of a mouse, as if to prove a point.

“Then you will have to bring him into the mountains,” Master Bard decided and pointed to the North. “Bring him to the top of the one, where no snow falls. A paved road leads up to it, and I heard, the dragons themselves build it someday. If there is a way to teach your dragon how to grow up, you will find it there.”

Wayo nodded, very hesitantly. He had heard the tales of the Dragon’s pass that lead up to Schwarzbergen Peak, just like everyone had. The people in the village, behind the river and the forest, said, no grass and moss ever dared to grow on the cobblestones of the path. And even in winter, it stayed warm up there. Frila, the village’s mad old hag, claimed she had been up on that mountain once. She had talked about rivers, that led fluid fire instead of water, a gigantic hall, with pillars as thin as a thigh, and trees of gold and silver. Wayo, as well as everyone else, did not believe the woman’s tales, but he was curious nonetheless. His friend, Wingdings was a dragon and needed his help – and he would get to see the most myth-enshrouded place between his hut and Zoberherch.

Of course, he was also nervous, and maybe even a teeny tiny bit afraid; not even bandits ad murderers dared to make their trips to Schwarzbergen Peak.

The dragon liked his friend’s hand, and the boy nodded.

“I will,” he declared – and felt, as if he had grown up already, even though he had never wanted to.

Master Bard smiled his old-man-smile again, then Bard snapped his fingers and disappeared in a gust of wind, in whirling leaves and dust.

“Not only a bard, but a magician as well!” Wayo’s mother gasped. “Good thing I wore my best dress.”

His father though was worried about more than the expression they had left.

“You can’t go, Wayo,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. “I won’t allow it. You’re only seven, and you’re my son.”

Wayo felt sad at his father’s words, but held his hands and smiled: “You heard, what the old man said. He is a bard and a magician and has seen and heard much, so it must be true.”

Wayo’s mother nodded and smiled – and sobbed, water flowing from her eyes and nose.

Her voice was hoarse and only a squeak: “Can’t you stay? Can’t you change your mind?”

Wayo shook his head, and when he spoke the words, he knew they were true: “I can’t. And if you force me to stay, I’ll slip off at night.”

“Slip-walk away-way, yes,” Wingdings agreed, and nodded so wildly, his ears flapped around.

 

* * *

 

The boy had grown up in the wild, with the animals of the farm and forest, and surely was used to walking long distances and finding dibble supplies in the woods. And that was good, because the mountain without snow was farther away, than Wayo had thought. It took him and Wingdings four days of walking, with a pause in the morning, midday and evening, only to make it to the foot of the mountain. They started walking, once the sun rose and made camp once it set. They had stayed away from settlements and houses. Wayo knew his friend looked more than strange and suspicious, and the boy was afraid how the other farmers might react to the sight of his dragon.

It was the morning of the fifth day, that Wayo slowly crawled out from under his friend’s leathery, heavy wings that had kept both of them warm overnight. He blinked into the golden sunrise, which was brighter in the mountains. Morning mist hung in the air, and covered the valley, where his parents’ hut stood. Wayo inhaled the cold fresh air deeply, and the warm drowsiness of sleep yielded to a shiver.

If only Wingdings could breathe fire already, Wayo thought wistfully, and rubbed a little warmth into his with goose bumps covered arms.

Their campfire had died out overnight, and the remaining branches and ashes were covered in a thin film of dew drops. They were too moist to light up, and Wayo crawled under Wingdings’ wing, to get some dry wood.

With the help of the iron lighter his mother had given him, Wayo managed to create a small gleam, and sheltered it with his hands, until it was big enough to not die out in the cool breeze.

Wingdings nostrils twitched, when the smell of fresh fire and resinous wood reached them, and he opened his eyes. Slowly, the right the right one first and half a minute later, the left one too.

“Good morning,” he grumbled and coughed, “Wayo sleep-slept well?”

Wayo laughed, and patted his friend’s snout. “Good morning to you, too.”

After a meagre breakfast, that consisted of a small chunk of bread and two fish each, that Wingdings had caught with his sharp, long claws in a nearby creek, the boy and his dragon continued their journey.

They followed the road upwards, as it wound up the mountain and the higher they got, the more changed the vegetation. In contrast to the mostly green mixed forest, with ferns and pines and maples the surroundings now barely had any trees. Instead of grass, brown moss covered the ground, and only occasionally a flower showed its buds; small and yellow, their petals were the only splash of colour.

Wayo decided, Schwarzbergen Peak did look just as bleak and dark up close as it did from the distance, and the monochrome, prickly bushes looked indeed, as if dragons had set each one of them on fire.

It only took Wingdings and Wayo until noon to reach the end of the paved road, and Wayo was disappointed. There were no silver and golden trees, as Crazy Frila had said, and no rivers of fire. Here was, though, a gigantic palace – at least, what time had left standing on it: Chunks of pillars, too large and heavy for any human to lift laid scattered over the mountain, as if a giant had thrown a tantrum and trampled the building. Also, the distinctive smell of rotten eggs, of sulphur hung in the air, and Wayo held his nose. The stench rose from strange vents in the ground, together with sickly yellow mist.

At the top of the mountain stood a sign. Wayo could read, and that was something he was very proud of; his father had taught it to him. In his life, there had not been many things to read, aside from  _flour_  on a sack, and once  _tea_  on the jar with fine, soft herbs. One of his uncles had gifted it to Wayo’s family, and he had said it came straight out of Zoberherch’s colonies, from over the sea, whatever that meant. The tea had been something special, so special; it still stood in the secret stash behind the second cupboard to the right.

Wayo knew how to read, which sound each letter related to – and still could not read the sign. It was not his fault, though, as it was not written in the common language he and his parents spoke. I was written in the language of the dragons, and the letters looked as if a sharp, long, crooked claw had left them in the soft wood.

 _HIC SVNT DRACONES_  the sign had once read, but someone had first scratched out the  _SVNT DRACONES_  and replaced it with  _EST DRACO_. Later, the whole wooden sign had been charred, its surface now black, and someone had scratched  _HIC ERANT DRACONES_  in bright letters on it.

Wayo knew neither the history of the sign, nor could he read dragon-tongue, so he finally decided to march on, Wingdings at his heel. The dragon, who was not yet a real dragon, had whimpered the whole time, complaining at the “ouchie itty-bitty at his clawfeetclaws”. In contrast to Wayo, the creature had never strayed too far from the little hut, and the furthest he had even been was to the river, behind the forest – the place he had hatched from the pebble.

Now, Wingdings kept silent, as if even his small, undeveloped brain understood something about his place was special.

He followed his friend, around the remnants of the ancient civilization. They passed a gigantic hall, and the pillars on the ground were easily ten metres high. Wooden shelves half stood, half laid around, and contained what was left of leathery scrolls.

Wayo hoped to find out in one of them, what made a dragon an actual dragon, but was forced to give up: The first scroll he took crumbled apart, when he tried to open it. The second one stayed in one piece, but Wayo noticed it was once again written in the dragon-tongue.

The boy was disappointed. Back when Master Bard had said he had to visit Schwarzbergen Peak, the home of the dragons for an answer, it had sounded so evident. Plus, Wayo had trusted the old man’s judgement. How could someone so old, who had seen and heard much and was a magician, be wrong?

Wayo had walked for almost a week, and just believed an answer, a solution would magically pop up. Of course, he was a reasonable, down-to-earth boy – but he had seen a man dissolve into thin air that day.

Now he felt betrayed. Instead of the place of wonder he had expected, he had stumbled into a smelly, rotten pit of old stuff.

Wayo slumped down, and did not care the ashes soiled his pants. He closed his eyes in resignation and only wanted to take a short break, before returning back home.

But Wingdings changed his plans.

“There, look-see. Strange man-o-man,” the creature screeched. Wayo wearily looked up, and noticed his friend was right. Quiet some distance away stood a dark, hooded figure next to a pillar and was watching the boy and his dragon.

Suspiciously, Wayo stood up and stalked closer. Wingdings stayed behind him and mimicked the boy’s slightly crouched posture.

When he was close enough, the boy recognized the flowing, white beard, which swirled in the steady breeze.

“Master Bard!” he exclaimed, unsure if that was still the correct form of address. Should it not rather be Master Magician?

The bard turned around nonetheless and smiled his old-man-smile.

“You have come,” he noted, slowly and wise.

Wayo simply nodded: “What do we have to do to help Wingdings grow up and become a real dragon?”

Master Bard rubbed his beard and it was clear to see he was pondering that very question. He walked up to Wingdings and eyed the creature carefully. The dragon shied away, but Wayo petted his snout and calmed him down.

“Has it changed since you came here?”

“It?” Wayo asked, not sure what Master Magician meant.

“ _It_. The creature,” he gestured vaguely towards Wingdings, and Wayo clenched his fist.

“Why don’t you ask  _him_  yourself?” the boy asked through clenched teeth, and hesitatingly added, “Master Bard.”

The old man ignored Wayo and shook his head, disappointment in his eyes.

“They used to grow up in another dragon’s fiery breath,” the bard muttered, and his beard stood up, as if he had rubbed it with a woollen blanket.

Intimidated, Wayo took a step back, and Wingdings next to him started whimpering.

“What are you talking about, Master Bard?”

“Boy, do you know why the trees on this mountain used to be golden?” the magician ignored Wayo’s question and asked him in return.

“It’s the dragon’s blood: The golden blood of a dragon, which has spewed fire, on an apple, heals every ailment and makes young again.”

Wayo was only a farmer’s boy, and did not know much from life, but he knew pure malice, when he faced it. He took another step back, and his thoughts were racing: The trees of gold and silver Crazy Frila had mentioned, the strange interest of the bard in Wingdings, and his efforts to help the dragon grow up – they all added up now, into one horrible picture.

“You-, “ Wayo started, but did not manage to put his thoughts into words.

“Me,” the magician agreed, and he did not bother to fake the old-man-smile, did not give his voice importance and wisdom.

“I will keep the creature,” the old man decided, “but for you I have no longer any use, boy.”

In the stories Wayo’s mother had told him, the evil had always been scaly and ugly. Their evil ploys would have one huge mistake, the invincible would have one weakness, and the tiny, smart hero would win.

No Wayo realized that these stories had neglected one fact: The hero always had a secret ability and the determination to use it.

Wayo did not. He was just a seven year old, who had grown up on a farm and in the forest, next to the river. He had no way to fight someone who could disappear into thin air and summon lightning.

Wayo was not determined – he only felt fear. The lump in his throat took his words and breath, and was so giant he could not even cry. With jittering legs and the sound of his own, fast-beating heart in his ears, Wayo stared at the magician.

He watched, as the man stretched out his hands, and the sparks from his beard flew into his palms. The magician let the force build up, and the lightning in his hands grew blindingly bright.

Wayo took one last shaking breath, then closed his eyes, and waited for whatever would happen next.

Even through closed lids, he could see the bright flash – but felt no impact. Carefully, he opened his eyes again, just in time to see Wingdings fly through the air.

The young dragon did not use his wings, though, but had hurled himself in front of his friend and was now hurled across the plain by the force of the magician’s lightning.

Wayo watched, unable to move, as his friend hit the ground, motionless and limp. He could not even call out Wingdings’ name, as the dragon’s body skidded over the rough, stony ground and disappeared into yellow mist and burning lava.

“No,” Wayo muttered, his voice bare of any emotion. He understood what had happened, but could not actually believe it.

He stood for a heartbeat, motionless, before his jittering legs betrayed him and he dropped to the floor.

 “No!” he called out again, louder this time.

 “No!” just as desperate, the magician joined in.

“I spent ten year looking for it,” he exclaimed, his anger letting the mountains tremble. “Ten years! I don’t have the time – I can’t simply search another dragon!” Lightning shot from his hands and hit the highest ruins around him.

The magician was breathing heavily and Wayo cowered on the ground, overtaken by both fear and grief.

He watched with wide, tearing eyes, as the old man stepped closer. His expression grew blank, and he bowed down to Wayo, staring the boy coldly in the eyes.

“Seems like I will die,” the old man sneered, “so I can’t let you live either. Don’t take it personally; it’s as simple as that: You ruin my life, I kill you.”

Wayo stared back, but not in defiance. He had accepted his death already, even more so after his friend had given up his life. Wayo trembled a bit, as he realized his parents would never learn what happened to their son, and he closed his eyes; he hoped they would forget him, and that Tersa would make them happy again.

When Wayo opened his eyes again, they were brown and empty. He had made his decision.

The magician laughed – not in a content way, not evil and prideful. Instead, it was a tired, resigned laugh. He raised his hands again, and commanded the energy of the skies into them.

Suddenly, a shimmering green flash came out of the ground and hit the magician. The power of the impact shook the earth, and let the old man fall to the ground.

Wayo watched, and could not believe his eyes: Wingdings had come back! Wingdings was back, alive and unharmed, and sat on the magician’s chest. The dragon nearly squashed the old man, and Wayo felt an odd satisfaction, as the man lost consciousness.

The boy wanted to run towards his friend and hug him, but hesitated. Something was  _different_.

He watched, as Wingdings shook out his wings and folded them back together, trying to figure out what had changed.

“You don’t happen to have potatoes and wild garlic in there?” Wingdings suddenly pointed one of his long claws at Wayo’s bag. The dragon’s voice had changed, and so had his choice of words. He was no longer babbling and fighting to pronounce the words. Now his voice was deep and smooth – and something else. Wayo decided that  _elegant_  was the right word to describe it.

The boy stared at the dragon in shock. Whatever creature stood before him – that was no longer Wingdings. Wingdings, his small, silly, babbling friend had died.

“Wild garlic?” he then stammered. He had heard his mother’s stories, of course – but he had never believed in dragons, and even less into their eating habits.

“Wild garlic,” the dragon repeated, and picked his teeth with his claw. “ _Allium ursinum_ , in the old language. That means leek of or for bears. Other names: Ransom, buckrams –“

“I know what wild garlic is,” Wayo interrupted the dragon, surprised by his own courage and boldness.

“Then why do you ask? Then again, I guess you can’t help it. We dragons know you humans suffer from that terrible illogicality. – Now, do you have some?”

“No, I don’t,” Wayo replied.

“Too bad,” the dragon snarled. “I just wanted to give it a try. Charred wizard with potatoes and wild garlic would have been tempting.” Then he coughed, and Wayo recognized that sound: It was the same, guttural sound Wingdings had made.

The cough, he realized, was a dragon’s version of laugher. Wayo ducked and tucked his head in, as a flame shot out of the dragon’s snout.

“I will have to get used to that,” he dragon remarked, and rolled his eyes to see his nostrils.

He took a deep breath, and tried it again. – Another bust of flames flickered through the air, and looked strangely beautiful.

“You have to excuse me, old friend,” the dragon said, and breathed out more fire, “I never expected growing up to be quite so  _startling_. It must be horrible in your little brain…”

“Brain?” Wayo asked, as he had never heard that word.

“Brain”, the dragon confirmed. “It’s the organ inside your skull, the nervous centre of your body.” Then he stopped. “That was rude again, wasn’t it? I know human science is not yet advanced enough – so how could you understand what I’m talking about.”

The dragon fell silent, and his golden eyes stared at Wayo, without blinking. His tail traced over the floor, and Wayo noticed this had been something Wingdings had done when he had been nervous.

“You should know,” the dragon finally spoke again, but with less confidence in his sonorous voice, “I’m still the same. Just because the heat of the volcano, err, flames, has given me the ability to access my kind’s knowledge and skills – that does not mean I am someone else now.”

Wayo kept his distance, hardly convinced.

“Well, considering that… - I probably  _have_  changed, you’re right,” the dragon interpreted the boy’s silence. “I just have to find out, how much I changed. Help me find out.”

The dragon lay flat on the ground, and his golden eyes still watched the boy without blinking. With the giant wings folded on his back, the pleading expression in those big eyes and the reptile tail flicking wildly, Wayo could not help but compare the dragon to the day he had found him – only now every blow of the tail let the ground tremble, every cough through those nostrils set the sky on fire.

He stayed silent for a while longer, and then took a deep breath.

“Wingdings,” he decided, the name still fit his friend: The strangest creature he would ever meet.

Relieved, the dragon jumped up, almost squashing the old man beneath him. His split tongue stuck out, and he started panting, just like a dog – just like the old Wingdings. Then the dragon realized what he was doing and coughed. “Climb on my back,” he offered his friend, his voice expression his barely contained excitement, “we will be home in the blink of an eye.”

“But what if I don’t want to go home?”

“We can take a detour, one, two, as many as you like.” Wingdings stared at the horizon, and his massive heart started pumping faster: “ _Fortasse non ultimus sum_.”

_Maybe I’m not the last one._


End file.
